


The Way to a Man's Heart

by morganya



Category: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-12
Updated: 2007-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thom Filicia is very passionate about food."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way to a Man's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I am on a diet. And then this happened.

  
_Cocktails_  
"It's the kind of drink that's really, really easy to mess up," Ted told him. "So this might be flirting with disaster a little bit."

Thom watched him gather Carson's liquor bottles together, lining them up on the counter. He guessed Ted must have been here a few times before, back when they shot the first show, before Blair and Kyan and he had been hired. Ted's jittery quality seemed to fade in the kitchen, Thom noticed; the slope of his shoulders was a little less tense, deep voice a little more casual. Thom said, grinning, "Can I trust you?"

Ted shrugged, grinning at him. "I hope so. We can always toss it if I'm wrong."

Kyan was still in the living room with Carson, who was telling a story about some kind of embarrassing moment that had either happened to him or a friend or a cousin - it was hard to tell with the rapid-fire delivery. Blair, quiet and shy and probably somewhat overwhelmed by all of them, had left early, making apologies. It was getting near the time when they all should be getting home; Thom was running out of jokes to make and possible topics for small talk. It was his first night trying to get to know these people. If there was ever a time where he needed to be funny and interesting, it was now.

He wasn't really sure how he felt about any of them yet, but he knew he wanted them all to like him.

"Maybe we should get them in here," Ted said, inclining his head towards the living room. "Or is Kyan too busy falling in love with Carson?"

"He is?" Thom said, interested. "Is that something to watch out for? You've known him longer."

"Just barely longer. But it's a risk." Ted took a glass out of Carson's cupboard. "Looks like you're the first one who's gonna try it."

"I don't know if I'm supposed to be flattered or scared."

"Me neither." Ted laughed.

He wasn't really sure of how Ted fit in yet (he'd probably say the same thing about himself). He'd been expecting the food and wine guy to be a personal chef or a restaurant owner, something. Ted was neither. He had a Midwestern twang and a barely perceptible stammer that reminded Thom of Jimmy Stewart, a way of muttering wisecracks half-audibly. He'd already admitted he wasn't a professional, not like Carson or Kyan or Blair or even him.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" Thom said.

"Here and there. Wrote about it mainly. Do you cook?"

"I pick up the phone and I order things," Thom said. "Does that count?"

"...No," Ted said cautiously, and Thom laughed.

Ted smiled, looking relieved, and uncapped the bottle of grenadine. "Ever had a pousse café before?"

"I thought those were for after dinner."

"Traditionally, yeah. Hence the name."

"Oh, okay," Thom said, trying to think of what he might mean.

Ted tilted a teaspoon over the glass as he poured, pinkish grenadine running slowly down the back of the metal. "So tell me how you decided to be in show business."

"You're pretty into this whole bartender role."

"I guess so...I'm interested."

"Y'know, I figured...it's publicity, right? I mean, it's not exactly HGTV, but it'll help get my name out if I'm on TV. Maybe I can get some new clients out of it." Thom looked back at the glass. Ted had started pouring crème de cacao. "And everyone thinks designers are gay anyhow. It's not like _that's_ going to be a big surprise." He wasn't sure how Ted was managing to get the layers right; pink grenadine and deep dark cacao, like a psychedelic version of a cocktail. "How do you do that, anyway?"

"All in the wrist," Ted said. "It's kinda fussier than what I usually do. I'd usually just make a martini or something. I'm not sure it's going to taste very good."

"You're making me really confident."

"It's what I do."

"So how'd _you_ decide to do this?"

"Oh..." Ted raised one shoulder. "I just needed a change before I turned forty. Cooking was the least adventurous choice I could think of. Everyone likes food, right?"

"As far as I know."

The finished drink was pink and black and red and green and violet, a miracle of science. Thom was slightly afraid to drink it, cupping his hands around the glass' base gingerly, lest the layer collapse. Ted scowled down at it.

"This is scary," Thom said.

"I know. Don't believe I made it."

"I'll drink it if you do."

"Okay," Ted said obediently. He picked up the glass, muttering, "Don't fall, don't fall, don't fall," to the layers, took a sip, and then made a face. "That's got a kick like a mule."

"A really girly mule," Thom said, and laughed.

"That goes without saying."

Thom took the glass back, figuring he needed to be true to his word. Just before he took a sip, he said, "What made you want to make me this, anyway?"

"I don't know," Ted said. "Just showin' off, I guess."

_Hors d'oeuvres_  
There were about seven tins of foie gras left over when the shooting was over. It seemed strange that foie gras should come in tins, like Spam, Thom thought. Maybe it made them easier to ship. The tins were shaped like eggs, pointed at the top and round at the bottom, stamped with a kosher symbol.

Ted alternated between fretting that the Zaltas had hated his food, saying to no one in particular, "How can you not like foie gras?" and pacing the trailer, looking panicky. He probably thought he was going to be fired. Thom didn't know how to reassure him. It was television.

He'd had foie gras before (client lunches in overpriced restaurants, friends with gourmet tastes) - but he'd never seen it packaged before. When there was finally a quiet moment, he stuck a penknife in one of the tins and opened it up.

It looked like the foie gras he'd seen before, the thick, pale pink lobes nestled in the tin like they were sleeping. He took an experimental sniff - same delicately fleshy smell. He sliced a bit off with the penknife and raised it to his mouth.

It was soft on his tongue, like what he imagined just-made butter would feel like. It felt like it was melting, spreading flavor through his mouth. There was a hint of something wild and gamey underneath the richness, the liver taste - somehow steadying in its simplicity - the only thing that kept the flavor from being cloying. Thom wanted to moan.

He took another slice. It would probably be overkill to look for bread, and definitely wrong, wrong, wrong to see if there was any actual butter around - he was probably going to gain five pounds just eating this by itself. He wanted a spoon.

"At least someone likes it," Ted said behind him.

"Uh-huh," Thom said with his mouth full. "This is really good."

"Think you can go convince them of that?"

"Hey, I can't work miracles," Thom said, but it came out indistinct. He swallowed. "What do you think happened?"

"I overestimated," Ted said tiredly. "Rookie mistake."

"This is _delicious_," Thom said. He figured it was worth repeating.

Ted smiled. "Let me try."

Thom opened another tin. "You're gonna have to find your own fork. Or use your fingers."

"I'll find a fork." Ted got up. "The important thing is, the house looks great."

"Yeah?" Thom said. "You think so?"

"Well, you saw his face, Thom."

"Yeah," Thom said. "I've been doing this for too long. People don't want to hurt your feelings, so they kind of say they like something and then later you get all these phone calls from friends asking you what the hell you were thinking."

"You know, Thom, I don't know you that well yet, but I kind of doubt that happens very often." Ted came back to the table.

He wondered why Ted had really chosen to be the food guy. He maybe didn't know about clothes very much (Carson had looked him up and down in the van and said, "How cute, Pa Kettle comes to the big city"), but he obviously knew about other stuff. He'd stood with Adam in the new living room, Ted still wearing the apron he'd picked out, talking with his hands as much as his mouth, about home and living, and he and Adam had both been slightly dazzled.

He wondered what else Ted knew about. He kind of liked hearing Ted talk.

"Pass that over," Ted said, waving his fork.

"Uh-huh," Thom said, shoveling a last mouthful in and poking the tin with his finger. Ted took a bite and nodded approvingly.

"I guess it's the same thing as kosher chicken," Ted said. "They're both tender and flavorful because of the process. Religion has its perks."

"They should use that as a selling point," Thom said. "So you don't feel bad about having no bacon."

"_Nothing_ makes up for having no bacon," Ted said.

Thom laughed. "Give that back. You've had enough."

"You're not seriously planning to eat all of that, are you?"

"It's gonna go to waste," Thom said. "Plus it might be poisoned. And be bad for people's cholesterol. I'm _performing a public service._"

"That's kind of you."

"I do what I can."

"It's really horrific," Ted said, "but I almost think foie gras tastes better if you have butter with it. The two fats go together well. Not that I've ever tried it, of course."

Thom swallowed and looked at him. "Are you kidding?"

Ted looked embarrassed. He shrugged. "I'm just sayin'. It's fine without it, right?"

Thom said, "Ted, if you ever get some more of this, I might have to marry you."

_Salad_  
"So why do you have to rip them up?" Thom said, watching Ted shred Romaine into a bowl. "It looks like you're making confetti with the produce."

"No reason, really. It tastes nicer when it looks kind of rough. Are you planning to help, or are you just gonna stand there and be a weisenheimer?"

"I'm making sure you don't screw up."

"Ohhh, so _that's_ what you're doing. Good to see you're at least earning your keep."

"That's right."

"Think you could maybe whisk some dressing while you're checkin' up on me?"

"Slave labor." Thom pressed a hand to his forehead. "Ooh."

"Are you done?" Ted said, laughing.

"Mmm. Yeah."

"Right. Now get whisking." Ted passed him the olive oil.

Thom watched the oil, pale green in the kitchen light, ease into the bowl in front of him. It was full of mustard and garlic and vinegar, sharp-smelling and darkly primordial, though he knew it'd be great once it was mixed. Ted was slicing red pepper that had been roasted; its skin was black and crackly on the surface and brilliantly colored underneath. There was a bowl of artichoke hearts in front of him, waiting their turn.

"Tell me what this is again," Thom said.

"St. Louis Salad. It's easy, right?"

Thom nodded.

"I did all this research into the background," Ted told him in a low voice, "so I could talk about it for a few minutes before I showed him how to do it, and, um, then I forgot all of it. I have no idea what I'm going to say."

"You're getting senile, Grandpa."

"Most likely."

He was tired - they were all tired - and the pace didn't seem likely to let up. They'd spent six months rushing from photo shoot to interview to guest appearance to clubs to planes to trains to automobiles, dressing in designer clothing and getting swag from every store in the metropolitan area. Thom felt like he hadn't slept in a long time, his nerves jangling like he imagined rock stars' did, and it was a while since he'd sort of felt like himself.

The truth was, he liked hanging out with Ted in the kitchen when they were shooting and most of his work had already been done. Somehow it was easier to feel peaceful when he was watching Ted chop things, or talking about whatever was on his mind at the time (he'd learned all Ted's favorite songs were sad ones, his favorite movies either weird indie things or documentaries). He thought Ted seemed most himself in the kitchen, too; out of the kitchen, they were both jittery and overstimulated, unable to talk about anything but how weird this was, how exciting and exhausting.

Ted was looking down at the red peppers seriously. It was a look Thom had gotten very familiar with - lowered eyelids and a quirk in his lower lip that was almost a pout. His hands were flecked with red pepper peel, red and black. Thom felt like he should smile, tease Ted about being a big dork, make him join in with his strange, soft bark of a laugh.

He didn't. He couldn't.

"You're slackin' off," Ted said, looking up and blinking at him. He grinned. His eyes were really fucking blue.

Thom looked down at the bowl. His hand was frozen, the stream of oil stopped. He was thinking, _This is something new._

"Looks like it came together, though," Ted said approvingly. "Just need some cheese. I'll get you some. Hey, what happened? You look all unraveled."

"Nothing. I was thinking -" He stopped, fumbled with the bottle, trying to find the cap. "I was thinking about how funny-looking you are."

"Nice," Ted said. "What brought that on?"

"The obvious," Thom said. His face was hot and probably bright red, the color of Ted's roast peppers. He swallowed.

He had a problem.

_Entrée_  
Thom figured that most of his success was due to good planning. The best course of action seemed to be the simplest: invite Ted over for something mildly work-related, make fantastic gourmet dinner beforehand, dazzle Ted with culinary brilliance, profess undying love and devotion and then go about living happily ever after. It was the only reasonable option.

He knew he couldn't impress Ted by just showing the apartment off and then rushing him away to some fancy place downtown - Ted already expected his place to be nice (he reminded himself to call a maid service; he hadn't cleaned up in a while) and Ted had already been to just about every fancy place in New York - he kept saying how nice it would be to get a nice meal that he didn't have to leave a tip for at the end. Thom needed to show him something new, an unexpected facet of himself, move Ted's conception from 'Thom, the guy from work' to 'Thom, the guy I should be dating.'

"I thought you didn't cook," Ted said when Thom offered the invitation.

"I cook," Thom said. "I cook all the time."

"So how come you're always asking me to make you things?"

"Because I like yours better."

Ted looked doubtful, raising his heel off the ground and hooking his foot around his other ankle. Seeing an opportunity, Thom said, "It'll be fun. Besides, I want to talk to you about what you want to do about that nasty-ass kitchen next week."

"We should talk about that...but I've been letting things go an awful lot this month," Ted protested weakly. "I really should get some stuff done at the apartment..."

"It'll still be there after dinner."

"Thom..."

"Ted, come on. I'm getting a nosebleed."

"You really _can_ cook, right?"

"Of course."

"What time?" Ted said, defeated.

Thom decided on making apricot-glazed Cornish game hens; he'd had it once at a dinner party in Nantucket and been fascinated by the soft golden color of the birds, a gilded, sweet glaze over crisp crackly skin and white meat, dripping juice. It was almost like roast chicken, he figured, but dressier - Ted liked roast chicken, collected recipes for it. He'd appreciate this most, Thom thought.

He called his friend Kathleen in Nantucket, begged for the recipe and scrawled it down as well as he could. He bought groceries on the way home from TFI - applesauce, dried apricots, rosemary, white wine, tiny fat Cornish hens wrapped in butcher paper, fingerling potatoes picked up as an afterthought. Ted was coming at eight. The cleaning service had already come; he'd managed to consolidate whatever crap that remained into the closet at the end of the apartment hallway.

He took the dog for a walk, willing himself not to hurry. The last time he could remember trying to cook a meal was when he was a kid, helping his mother get dinner ready; she'd made some fancy stuff sometimes, dishes with names he couldn't pronounce, but even so, his job had usually just involved stirring or chopping. In college, he'd survived on takeout pizza and care packages that she'd sent him (his entire fraternity had gorged on her brownies and cookies, slavered over her zucchini bread, dense and spicy). When he'd gotten his own place, he'd made cheese sandwiches in the oven and bought premade sauces for pasta. He occasionally threw a salad together based on what was in the crisper.

He kind of regretted not asking her to teach him to cook when he'd had the chance.

Back at the apartment, he put the hens in a pan and turned the oven on. They were cute little things, he thought, pale with fragile looking wings, their breasts puffed out with pride. He picked one up to rinse it; it was cold and puckered under his fingers, and he muttered, "Ew," to himself as he turned the water on with his elbow. He threw some rosemary over them, watching green speckle their skin.

The directions were easy enough - roast the birds for an hour, make glaze in the meantime, throw potatoes in the oven, glaze half-roasted birds and pop them back in the oven for another hour. The glaze was the thing.

He mixed applesauce and white wine and quartered apricots on top of the stove. Tiny orange crescent moons bobbed in viscous white. He covered the whole thing with brown sugar and a smattering of orange zest and cloves, and then stared down at it, wondering if the sugar would melt before him, smelling of caramel.

It was supposed to simmer, which he understood as bubbling, kind of. It just kind of sat there.

After ten minutes, he started to think, _This is boring._

He was actually grateful when the phone began to ring. It was probably nothing - some other petty work thing that he probably couldn't fix anyway, but at least it would kill some time.

He put a cover on the pan and went to look for the cell phone. There were orders to be made, faxes to send. While he was at it, he probably needed to take a shower.

Everything looked okay when he came back in the kitchen - the room smelled of toasted rosemary and sugar. He turned the stove off and went to glaze the birds. When he took the cover off of the pan, the glaze looked a little weird; it was vivid orange and sticky-looking, like cheap sweet and sour sauce, and it clung to the sides of the pan when he tilted it. The apricots were limp soggy chunks, stuck together at the bottom.

"Gonna be fine," Thom muttered through his teeth. He grabbed an oven mitt and took the birds out - at least they looked good, not quite brown but fragrant and moist-looking. He had to push the glaze out of the pan with a spoon, and then it slopped on top of his birds, quivering on the top. He hoped to hell it would melt. He pushed the whole thing back into the oven and shut the door. Paco wandered in and looked longingly at him, wagging his tail.

"Yeah, keep dreaming," Thom told him. Somewhere in the living room, his phone began to ring.

The phone rang while he picked out music, while he changed clothes, while he tried to do something with his hair. None of it was important - more things that needed to be ordered, more appointments that he needed to go to, travel arrangements, scheduling stuff.

It was getting easier and easier to be really fucking sick of work.

The doorbell rang at eight fifteen. Thom threw Coldplay on the stereo, pressed the buzzer and said, "'Bout time," into the intercom. Ted said, sounding frazzled and machine-distorted, "Yeah, I know," back, and then clicked off.

When he opened the door, Ted looked distracted and out of breath, like he'd just dashed up the stairs. Ted was always on the edge of being nervous; he was self-conscious and excitable, at least until he thought he had things figured out. He looked up at Thom and said, "Ever had a day where you'd like to just chuck your phone into traffic?"

It was stupid, but Thom hadn't really thought about how glad he'd be to see Ted. He said, "I've been having one all day."

Ted smiled. Thom said, quietly, "Hey, sweetie," and leaned in to give him a hug. The phone went off.

"Is that mine?" Thom said.

"No, it's mine. Again. I'm sorry." Ted fumbled in his coat pocket. "Aw, damn. I better take this. Sorry."

"You'd think you were, like, popular," Thom said, and laughed. He shut the door behind him to keep the dog, who was inside barking violently at nothing, from escaping into the hallway, and watched Ted talk. Or not talk. Ted mostly just said, "Uh-huh," at regular intervals, slouched against the opposite wall, occasionally glancing at Thom and making a 'come on' gesture at the receiver. Thom laughed.

"The sixteenth," Ted said. "Yeah. All righty. Bye." He turned the phone off. "I'm kind of sick of answering this."

"I know the feeling. Want to come in? We maybe shouldn't stand out in the hall, it looks weird."

"Oh, yeah," Ted said, as if he were just realizing it. "Right."

Thom opened the door. "You want anything? Glass of wine?"

"That sounds great - Uh, Thom? I think your apartment might be on fire."

Thom raised his head. There was a fog of black smoke drifting out of the kitchen.

"Oh," Thom said. "Oh, my God."

The smoke was even thicker in the kitchen, and it smelled of burnt sugar and char. Choking, he managed to get the oven off - he was still crazily hoping that everything was all right, that it was just dripped grease smoking. He opened the oven and nearly retched, his eyes tearing; a whole new cloud of smoke puffed out of the oven, directly into his face. The smoke alarm was going off.

He thrust his hands into the oven, trying to see what he could salvage. There was a plastic bag right next to the stove, full of potatoes - he only remembered that he'd been meaning to roast those too when his left palm touched the oven rack, slick with heat. He didn't register anything but the heat, at first, and then it started to hurt.

He was too surprised to do anything but yelp, jerking back into the smoke, clutching his wrist. The smoke alarm stopped, briefly, and then came back on again. Someone grabbed his shoulder.

"What happened? Let me see."

"Is the dinner all right?" Thom said. His hand was throbbing, layers of pain radiating through the skin. "_Motherfucker_."

"I have no idea. Run cold water over that, okay?"

"What?"

Ted pushed through the smoke and turned the sink on. "I'll open a window."

Thom stuck his hand under the cold tap. It still hurt like hell, but he figured it'd go numb in a minute. The smoke was already starting to clear; the fire alarm thankfully turned off. The hens were half out of the oven, or what remained of them, anyway. They were blackened and smelling of burnt fruit and sugar. There was no way they could possibly be edible.

Burnt poultry and raw potatoes. Fabulous romantic meal. He wanted to kick something.

"How's the hand?" Ted said, waving his arms frantically to clear the last of the smoke away.

"I don't know."

"Let me see." Ted touched his forearm, carefully turning Thom's palm up. Thom forced himself to look; there was a shiny pink line near the bottom of his palm, already turning white around the edges.

"You're going to have a hell of a blister," Ted said. "I think you pulled away just in time, though. From what I can see, anyway. Thank God it wasn't worse."

"I was trying to salvage the food," Thom said.

"Yeah. I, uh..."

"Well, it's a fucking piece of crap now," he said. "It looked better before."

"Probably just had it up too high for too long. Did you put something on, uh, whatever those were? Some things burn more quickly than others."

"I don't know," Thom said miserably. "I really can't cook that well."

"Yeah, I know."

Ted called for pizza while Thom sat on the couch with his hand stuck in an ice bucket, the hens were now in the trash and the potatoes stashed in Thom's refrigerator, where they'd probably stay until they began to sprout. Ted hung up the phone and sloshed red wine into two glasses.

"So tell me what possessed you to try to make Cornish hens," Ted said, sounding amused. He padded over and gave one of the glasses to Thom, slumping into the other side of the couch.

"I don't know," Thom said. "I thought it'd be easy."

"Thom - nobody cares if you can't cook, you know."

"_You_ care."

"What? Because I'm the food guy?"

"No, because you like it. You think about this stuff, Ted. I don't."

"Not all the time."

"I know, but you like fancy food. You like foie gras and sweetbreads and those itty bitty squiggles of stuff that's meant to be artistic on big plates."

"I like peanut butter and jelly too," Ted said. "And pizza. And cheeseburgers. I think I'd go nuts if I had to have haute cuisine all the time."

"I just wanted to make something you wouldn't expect from me. So you'd be impressed."

"I don't need to be impressed by you," Ted said quietly. "It doesn't matter to me, Thom."

"It matters to me, okay?"

"It -"

"It matters a lot to me," Thom said. He stared into the wine glass, wanting to swig the whole thing down in one gulp. His mouth was dry. "It matters. What you think about me."

Ted wasn't looking at him. His face was turning red. "You know what I think about you."

"No, I _don't_, Ted. I didn't really want to ask, you know? I don't deal with rejection well."

"Yeah, how often do you get rejected, Thom?"

"Not very often," Thom said. "That's why I don't deal well."

Ted laughed, but still didn't look up. The blush had spread up to his ears, coloring the tips pink. "So you made Cornish game hens so I'd think about you?"

"I just wanted it to be different," Thom said. "I thought it was gonna be like chicken. You like chicken. "

Ted said nothing. Thom thought, this was what he'd forgotten, that Ted had never really learned how to flirt, he got nervous and bashful whenever there might be a chance that emotions might possibly get brought up. Thom wanted to hug him.

"Did it work?" Thom said.

"I - Thom -"

"You're all the way over there, Ted," he said. "C'mon."

"We work together," Ted said weakly. "There are so many ways this could get fucked up -"

"I almost _lost a hand_ for you, Ted."

Ted slid over on the couch. Thom wrapped his good arm around Ted. "Hi there."

"Hi," Ted murmured, and put his head on Thom's shoulder.

"Sorry it didn't work out," Thom said. "I didn't think I'd be serving pizza."

"I don't care. It's pretty cute, actually," Ted said. "I mean, I tell the guys all the time, the important thing is that you try. I didn't think you'd try for me."

"You were wrong. Guess you feel pretty dumb now, huh?"

"Not the right word," Ted said quietly. Thom stroked the top of his head.

The phone rang. Ted said, "Is that mine or yours?"

"Who cares?" Thom said, and kissed him.

_Dessert_  
Thom woke up alone, his left arm sprawled out across the pillows. He tried to look at the clock, but his eyes couldn't really focus. He hadn't spent enough time at the house to get used to the lack of traffic noise outside yet; in a few days he'd be fine, but now the silence just seemed weird. The dog was pacing by the foot of the bed, whimpering.

"Hi," Thom croaked, and swung his legs out of the bed. He threw a robe over his shoulders and staggered downstairs, Paco at his heels.

He let the dog out and then peered out of the window. The sun was coming up over the lake; he could hear birds starting to sing, chirping in the soft morning air. Thom smiled.

Ted was in the kitchen, his back to the door, fiddling with the coffee machine. He was barefoot, wearing one of Thom's old shirts that was too big for him and hanging off his shoulders.

"I thought we said we weren't going to get up early anymore," Thom said.

Ted looked up and smiled. "Couldn't sleep. Coffee isn't going to help, but you know."

"I'll watch. That'll be helpful."

"No doubt."

Thom opened the refrigerator. There was still some chocolate custard leftover from last night, cool and creamy, in ivory white cups. He picked it out. "Want one?"

"I'll stick with coffee, I think."

"You don't even like sweets," Thom said. "Why do you make them?"

"Because you like them."

"Oh...oh, yeah..." Thom said, and laughed. He took a spoonful. The bite of cold on his tongue was a shock, and then melted away into dark chocolate and cream. "Why are you really up?"

Ted looked at him, then back at the machine. "I'm trying to decide what to be when I grow up."

"Honey -"

"I'm not sure I can start over again, Thom."

Thom put the cup down. "You're not starting over."

"I sort of am," Ted said. "I can't go back to Chicago. I'd probably have to freelance if I wanted to go back to journalism. I'm too _old_, Thom. I can't just start from scratch."

Thom stepped behind him and clasped his arms around Ted's chest. "Too old for what? You're not exactly nursing home material, Ted."

"I hate change."

"Yeah," Thom said. "That's why you up and decided to come to New York and start on the show. And write a cookbook. And all of the other things you did."

"That's different."

"You're just sad about the show ending."

"I'm not...Maybe a little."

"See?"

"Four years, Thom. It really didn't stop for a second."

"Had to stop. For everyone's sanity."

"I'm not going to miss the weird hours, anyway," Ted said. "I mean, there's nice memories there, but -"

"Don't freak out on me now, Ted. You can do whatever you want."

"I know..."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Ted said softly. "I mean, I was happy when we shut down."

Thom nodded enthusiastically. Ted laughed.

"It's just where all this stuff happened to me," Ted said. "Meeting the guys. Gettin' to go to the Emmys. Meeting you."

Thom put his chin on the top of Ted's head. "You're not going to pack up and go back to Chicago without me, right?"

"Can't very well now," Ted said. "I've got a lot of stuff here."

"Yeah."

The coffee machine clicked off. Thom said, "Come outside."

"What, like this?"

"Oh, they all know you're crazy anyway. Come on."

"Wasn't me I was worried about." Ted poured some coffee and followed Thom onto the deck anyway.

Thom sat on the deck, early morning sun hitting his head. He could hear his dog barking and birds singing. Ted sat in between his legs, leaning back, head against his chest.

"Check it out," Thom said. "It's really something, isn't it?"

"It's really something," Ted said softly. "It's really something."


End file.
